Tiny Dancer
by Shade5
Summary: Francie and Will find a 'Kate Jones' ticket stub...what is Sydney hiding? *Epilogue up!*
1. Laundry Day

Disclaimer: I don't own anything related to Alias.  
  
Spoilers: #14 "The Coup" and #18 "Masquerade"  
  
Francie's POV  
  
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Tiny Dancer  
  
by Shade  
  
"Hold me closer, tiny dancer," I hum as I fold Syd's laundry.  
  
Yeah I know. The moment I start doing laundry for other people is the day the apocalypse comes, right? But Syd's gone on another one of her bank trips, and she's been on so many lately that her hamper was filled to maximum capacity this morning when I walked into her room. So I decided to help her out some. After all, I'm her best friend, and those trips really wipe her out. I know she'll appreciate my help.  
  
I pick up a new shirt and smooth it out on the ironing board. The shirt is black. But it's Sydney's shirt, so what else is new? I pin the three quarter length sleeves back and fold it upward. I turn it over, revealing it's v-neck, and place it on top of the "already folded" pile.  
  
"Count the headlights on the highway," I keep humming, thinking to myself what a great Elton John song that is while I absent-mindedly continue to fold Sydney's freshly cleaned wardrobe.  
  
Ten minutes, seven shirts, five pairs of pants, two skirts, and nine sets of bras and panties later, Sydney's laundry is ready to be put away. "Damn Sydney's lucky to have me," I smile to myself. I pick up the tall stack of folded clothes and head to Syd's room to put them away for her. As I walk down the hall, I begin to hum a new song.  
  
"I'm sailing away," I quietly hum the familiar Styx tune. Syd likes Styx. I wonder when the last time was that she had the pleasure of listening to them. The bank uses up all her time. She even told me that she was thinking of quitting school so she could focus more on her job. Of course she didn't though, it was just a rough day. But someone's job shouldn't force them into thinking that way, even if it was just because of a bad day.  
  
I stop humming when I enter Syd's room. I'm too busy thinking about her situation – and trying to decide where to put her different articles of clothing – to concentrate on Styx.  
  
I gently place her sets of underwear in the underwear drawer. That was the easy part. I lay the skirts out on Sydney's pristine bed. They'll get hung up at the end. Then I look at the shirts and pants in my arms and sigh. See, Sydney has this weird, eclectic clothes system. She doesn't put her clothes away by season or color or article, like normal people. She's tried to explain her system to me before, but it was too over my head to remember. She said something about how the clothes correlate to her bank trips or something. Knowing that I have no clue where the clothes go, I start opening random drawers. The stack in my arms gradually gets lower as I make an attempt to put the clothes away according to her peculiar mold.  
  
Finally, I only have two shirts left in my hands. One shirt is white with a black splotchy pattern. I remember that Syd wore this shirt to Zebu's. And I remember that she left unexpectedly – for a change, right? I open a drawer that I have ignored up until now. It's small and on the bottom, furthest to the left out of the four drawers in that row. There are only two other shirts in there. They are rolled up into little balls, which was interesting because Sydney always folds everything. Balling her clothes is like the antichrist or something. I've already done this much for her, so I shake out the shirts to get the wrinkles out so that I can fold them. But when I shake out the second one, something falls onto the floor.  
  
I put the shirts I am holding onto Syd's bed and bend over to pick it up off the floor. At first glance, it looks like the blank side of a small piece of paper – like the size that would have a phone number on it. My inner self screams with happiness for Syd. She got a number! She's finally moving on! Wait, why didn't she tell me? But as I pick it up and turn it over, I see that it's not a phone number at all. It's an airplane ticket stub. I sigh – Syd didn't get a number after all.  
  
I place the ticket on the top of her dresser. I stare at it for a minute. A small fragment of her life. A remnant of yet another ridiculous bank trip that stole her away from her friends for yet another day. But wait. Hang on. Syd's name isn't on the ticket. It's some woman named Kate Jones. And she's flying to Ireland. I pick up the stub and look more closely. Apparently Kate Jones is our third roommate – she has our address. And the dates are the same as Sydney's trip last week. This is weird. Sydney may have gone on a trip at the same time, but it wasn't to Ireland. It was to Dallas. And even though this Kate Jones woman shares my address, I don't know who it is. I collapse onto Sydney's bed, perplexed. I have no idea what's going on with this plane ticket. And Syd's away again, so I can't ask her.  
  
But I can ask Will.  
  
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TO BE CONTINUED… 


	2. Will Gets A Call

A/N: I know it took a long time to get this chapter up…I promise, the next ones will be faster! Special thanks to Nicole, your fantastic "beta-ing" saved the day!  
  
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Will's POV  
  
Before I answer the phone, I glance behind my shoulder at the clock. Noon. I'm sitting in boxers and a tee shirt on my couch, eating Capn' Crunch and watching a rerun of Unsolved Mysteries. Hey, it is a Sunday.  
  
I pick up on the second ring. "Will Tippin."  
  
"Will, it's Francie. I need you to come over."  
  
"Is everything okay?" I ask, concerned. I suddenly realize that I've been overly concerned for my friends lately: Francie's broken engagement and the ever present and multifaceted Syd dilemma.  
  
"Yeah, yeah, it's just that…" she pauses. I hear a sigh, and then: "I found something weird in Sydney's room."  
  
Sydney. My senses heighten and my back straightens up.  
  
"I think you're going to want to see it," she continues cautiously, as if she doesn't want to say too much just yet.  
  
"I'll be right over."  
  
I place the phone back in its cradle and move to toss the soggy cereal remains into my sink, already cluttered with dishes that are long overdue for a good scrub. I quickly brush my teeth and put some jeans on over my boxers. I decide to change my shirt to one less wrinkled and lacking the "I- slept-in-this-and-never-changed" look. I grab my keys, running my fingers through my tousled hair on my way out to my car.  
  
I barely notice L.A. whiz by. Before I know it, I put my car into park and climb out, greeted by the familiar, inviting house. Sometimes I think I'm here more than my own place. Before I can elaborate on that train of thought, or even knock for that matter, Francie opens the door and shoves a slip of paper in my face.  
  
"It's a plane ticket stub," she says, not waiting for a question. "I found it rolled up in one of Syd's shirts in one of her drawers." My eyes scan the stub with Francie anxiously watching over my shoulder. "See the dates?" she asks. "They're the same dates as Syd's trip last week."  
  
"Yeah," I agree distractedly, skimming the ticket. "What's weird about this? Correct address, matching trip dates…" I trail off, continuing to search the stub. Francie begins to say something when I notice. The name.  
  
"Kate Jones," we utter at the same time.  
  
A wave of fear hits me, followed by one of anger. I initially fear for Sydney, that she has discovered what I have, or worse, that she knows more. Then I realize it. If she knows what I know, they'll hurt her too. I shudder at a brief mental image of the masked men beating Sydney to a pulp. Okay. Now I'm angry.  
  
Francie ushers me in the house, shutting and locking the door behind me. Francie never locks the door.  
  
We sit down next to each other on the couch, both hovering over the crumpled ticket stub in my hand. Oh shit. My mind wanders back to when I told Francie about the investigation. She knows about Kate Jones, too. But does she remember? I glance over, studying her face. She exudes anxiety and confusion. She hasn't said anything about remembering the name, or how Kate Jones was linked to Danny. I sigh heavily, deciding that she doesn't remember. I turn my face back to the ticket and weigh my options. Remind Francie – or don't. Recalling my encounter with the masked men with licenses to kill, I decide not to. Instead I play dumb. "This woman has your address," I point out absently; we both already know that.  
  
"I know," Francie replies, "but I don't know anyone with that name." Well, that's good. Now I'm sure that Francie doesn't remember. "But the dates are the same as Syd's. And it was hidden in her drawer. Don't you think that's kind of weird?"  
  
"Yeah, that's weird," I agree, continuing to play dumb. "What do you think's going on?"  
  
"No clue," she replies, dumbfounded. "Maybe Syd just picked it up in the airport, thinking it was hers. And then she forgot it was in her drawer," Francie urges, like she is trying to convince herself that this was all a simple accident, and coincidence. There's no way this is a simple coincidence. "But then there's the address…" Her forehead wrinkles in thought and frustration.  
  
My conscience – or maybe just my reporter's instinct – tells me to find out more about this ticket stub on my own, without involving Francie. I try to quell that tiny voice, telling myself that I would rather be clueless than get Sydney killed. I unknowingly grasp the stub tighter and tighter out of frustration, until Francie snaps me back to reality. "Will! Let go of the ticket," she coaxes sternly. Realizing what I am doing, I loosen my grip and stand up.  
  
"I've gotta go, Fran. Mind if I take this with me to look at?" The ticket once again feels my wrath as I tighten my grasp on it, not wanting Francie to say no.  
  
She raises an eyebrow, clearly skeptical about my sudden change in behavior.  
  
"Go ahead," she replies, eyebrow still raised.  
  
I offer a quick thanks, then rush out the door.  
  
I start my car and gun the engine. Rushing out of Syd and Francie's neighborhood, I merge on to the highway towards downtown L.A. – towards my office. I pull out my cell phone and dial Rebecca's cell phone number. She's my new assistant. When she answers, I cut her off. "Hey Bec, listen, I know it's a Sunday but this is urgent. Get me anything you can linking a Kate Jones to a Sydney Bristow. Start with the airport."  
  
TO BE CONTINUED…  
  
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A/N: Don't worry, Francie will remember that Will told her about the investigation! It's all coming up soon… 


	3. One Hour

Thanks for your help Nicole!  
  
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Francie's POV  
  
The clock blinks "2:57 AM" unmercifully. It took me long enough to fall asleep, and now I'm lying awake in the middle of the night. Ok, I am not a happy camper. I yank the smooth covers over my head, determined to get some rest, when it hits me.  
  
I remember.  
  
Will told me about Kate Jones. She was supposed to be seated next to Danny on a plane the night he was killed. Will was investigating it.  
  
I sit up in bed, alert. So, Kate Jones is connected to Sydney. The ticket isn't some freak coincidence. But I guess I knew that. I think for a second that the fact that Syd and this random woman are intertwined is actually kind of comforting – now this drama actually has some direction to it. But the cruel reality of how they are connected quickly shakes that train of thought off its tracks.  
  
Danny. Danny…why would these girls be linked only now? Why not half a year earlier? The timing is too random. Unless…Sydney has been hiding this for six months.  
  
Wait a minute! *Will* told me about Kate Jones in the first place! So why hadn't he bothered to refresh my memory yesterday? Maybe he forgot. No, Will's a reporter. His type don't forget. I crack my knuckles – a bad habit that I lapse into when I'm frustrated. Shit. He's got some explaining to do.  
  
The red harshness of my Radio Shack antique proclaims that it's now 3:13 AM.  
  
Screw it. Will is up to something, and I'm calling him.  
  
I climb out of bed, clumsily and hastily searching for my zebra print slippers. Successful, I haphazardly slip them on, my brain more focused on getting to the phone – quickly.  
  
I dial Will's number and the phone rings, once, twice, three times. Ugh, I should have just waited until the morning. Sometimes my impatience gets the better of me. But he finally answers on the fourth ring.  
  
"Will Tippin," he yawns from the other end. My mind is overflowing with things to say, clever comments to ease him into an explanation. Unfortunately, my impatience takes control again.  
  
Almost immediately I blurt out, "Why didn't you remind me!?"  
  
"What? Francie?"  
  
"Will! Wake up! Why didn't you say anything when I didn't remember that you had already told me about Kate Jones?"  
  
"Is that what this is about? Fran, go back to sleep."  
  
"Why not?" I push. "Sydney's my friend too, you know."  
  
There's a pause in the conversation; silence lingering like a black cloud. I don't know how to continue, and Will doesn't know how to respond. I don't believe this. Why would Will lie to me? What is it that's keeping Will, of all people, from telling me the truth? I hold the phone between my face and my shoulder. I feel alone and betrayed, and I wrap my arms around my chest in a feeble attempt to make myself feel loved.  
  
Finally, I ask quietly, "Will, what aren't you telling me?"  
  
He hesitates before answering. "It's a classified investigation."  
  
I think about that response for a minute. I don't know much about reporting. That could be a completely viable excuse. But on the other hand, "classified investigations" might not exist. And why would it have been classified anyway? The investigation hadn't appeared to be that important, that front-page. It was never even published. And if it was classified, why would Will have said anything to me in the first place? I'm not sure if it's the truth or not. So I decide to call his bluff.  
  
"That's crap, Will, and you know it."  
  
"Can I just point out what time it is?" he complains.  
  
"Don't change the subject," I fire back.  
  
"Francie, this is insane. It's just a plane ticket. Be reasonable and call me in the morning."  
  
But it's not just a plane ticket! I crack my knuckles again in frustration. Sydney hid this from us, and now Will is shielding something from me. My alert brain begins to see the big picture: that the ticket is a clue to Danny's murder for God's sake! I feel in it my gut that I am right. Still waters run deep.  
  
"There's something more, or Syd wouldn't have kept this from us," I urge, thinking inside that Will is doing the same thing.  
  
"Look, just wait until Sydney comes home on Tuesday. We can't do anything until she's here to talk to us."  
  
"I'm not so sure Sydney's the only one who knows something here."  
  
There is nothing but silence from the other end of the phone.  
  
"Come over for breakfast tomorrow, Will," I offer. "But only if you're ready to tell me what's going on inside that twisted mind of yours."  
  
I hang up without waiting for a reply, reasonably confident that he will concede in the morning.  
  
I replace the phone and slip back to my warm, comfortable bed, proud of how assertive I just was with Will. A slight smile graces my face as I collapse back into bed. I pull the warm down-filled comforter up around my shoulders and bury my head in the pillow.  
  
My smile soon fades as different Kate Jones-Sydney scenarios torment my brain. I see Sydney and Danny holding hands, with a faceless woman creeping up behind them with a gun. My forehead wrinkles and I squeeze that image away, replacing it with other thoughts of what would hold the key to this ticket stub enigma.  
  
I start to fade into a restless sleep when my ideas are interrupted – what is Will going to say in the morning?  
  
I catch one last glimpse of the clock before sleep captures me.  
  
3:57 AM.  
  
One hour has passed.  
  
TO BE CONTINUED…  
  
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	4. Breakfast Realizations

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Will's POV  
  
"Mozart 40" erupts from my cell phone as I cruise down busy streets of L.A. toward Francie and Syd's place.  
  
Keeping one hand on the top of the wheel, I rummage with the other through the pile of miscellany on my passenger seat: stray clothes, papers, pens, a clipboard or two, and a tape recorder. A reporter always has to be prepared. Finally my hand grazes my cell phone and I answer just as Mozart's tune begins to play again from the beginning.  
  
"Will Tippin." My signature greeting.  
  
"Hey Will, it's Francie. I hope you're still coming for breakfast."  
  
Well, she sounds cheery. Maybe she's ready to let me off the hook. Either way, I thought of a pretty good story in the shower this morning. It's got some holes, but she'll probably overlook them. Then I'll be home free, and all we have to do is get a reasonable explanation from Sydney. But hers probably won't be true either.  
  
"I'm actually on my way over right now."  
  
"Great! In that case, can you pick up some breakfast for us?"  
  
"Hey, I thought you were making me a home cooked meal for once!"  
  
"Scratch that. The stove is having issues and I don't know how to fix it."  
  
Tippin and large kitchen appliances: not a good combo. Just buying breakfast, rather than blindly attempting to repair Francie's kitchen, would avoid many potential hazards. My hopes of fresh chocolate chip pancakes fade away as I merge right and turn toward Sam's Bakery.  
  
"Fine," I sigh. "Give me twenty minutes."  
  
~~~  
  
Okay, let's go over the story one more time. I replay it in my head on the quick drive from Sam's to Francie's. True, Kate Jones was not a classified investigation. It never got published because it was a straight dead end. I only know that she was supposed to be seated next to Danny on a plane the night he was killed. That's all that Francie knows now, and that's all she needs to know. She doesn't need to know that Kate Jones is really Eloise Kurtz. She doesn't need to know that Kate/Eloise was murdered. She doesn't need to know that I ever talked to her. She doesn't need to know that the pin, the bug, belonged to her. She doesn't need to know about SD-6. The only other detail I plan on revealing comes from my imagination; that Kate Jones missed the flight the night of Danny's murder because she had just checked into rehab. They didn't know each other. Pure coincidence.  
  
Perfect timing, Will. I smile as I slow to a stop in front of the girls' humble abode. Climbing out, I expertly balance the cardboard cup holder filled with iced mochas, the bag of freshly baked bagels, and my keys and cell phone. I kick the car door shut behind me and shift to get a better grip on the bagel bag. Suddenly, Mozart 40 starts up again.  
  
I clumsily try to answer the phone without putting anything down. Bad move.  
  
The mochas fall out of their cheap cardboard holder and dribble down my old crew t-shirt, followed by the bagel bag, which empties its contents onto the rough pavement. Well, at least the mochas were iced. I mutter a curse, and answer the phone with a harsh "What?" rather than my habitual "Will Tippin."  
  
"It's Rebecca. I found something about the women you asked about," she says, just as Francie rushes outside.  
  
"Oh Will," she sighs. I signal to her to hold on, that I need to take this call. She nods, and heads inside to get napkins for my stained shirt.  
  
"Tell me fast Bec," I demand, not wanting to lose this precious window.  
  
"In the past month, Kate Jones has taken five trips. She travels – a lot. I faxed you a list of the five places and dates, the airport doesn't hold them longer than just a month. But the other woman you mentioned, Sydney Bristow, she hasn't flown anywhere in that time."  
  
"Yes she has. Sydney travels every week for her bank. And Kate –" Suddenly, I cut myself off as Rebecca's words register. "Never mind. Thanks Bec." I turn the phone off right when Francie comes back. She thrusts a Tina Turner tour t-shirt at me, commands me to change shirts, and begins patting my torso with paper towels to stop my shirt from dripping. I absent-mindedly challenge her, muttering that any self-respecting man can't don a circa 1985 Tina Turner shirt no matter how desperate the situation, but I'm too preoccupied with Rebecca's news to put up much of an argument and I compliantly put it on – once we're inside.  
  
My head is in a blur. My instinct tells me that Sydney travels under the name Kate Jones, and I have a feeling that the dates Rebecca got me will match Sydney's last few trips. But why? And if it really is Sydney, then how does Eloise Kurtz fit into all this? Did they both use the name Kate Jones? If so, which one was seated next to Danny? Why was Eloise killed, but not Sydney? What is Sydney's link to SD-6? And most importantly, why would she hide this from Francie and I? I swallow my confusion and bitterness and trudge inside after Francie.  
  
"Earth to Will," she calls from the kitchen, bringing me back out of my haze. "Do you want pizza or what?" I glance at my watch. 9:30.  
  
"Go for it," I reply, realizing that pizza for breakfast is better than no breakfast – it could almost be better than chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast. Almost.  
  
I slump down on the living room couch, cradling my chin in my hands. I faintly hear Francie ordering the pizza in the background. What am I going to do now? Should I tell her the lie anyway, regardless of this new news? Or should I tell Francie about Rebecca's news – and nothing more? I know how much it hurts to be deceived by people you love, in this situation, namely Sydney. Francie's going through the same thing, and she shouldn't have to be deceived by me too. But I know I can't say anything about my investigation; I have to keep my friends – and myself – safe. As Francie enters the room, I reluctantly decide to share only Rebecca's news with her.  
  
"Well, are you ready to tell me?" she asks. Wow, someone's not wasting any time this morning.  
  
"Listen carefully," I whisper, leaning closer to Francie's ear. "I think Sydney has been doing her bank traveling under the name Kate Jones. I had my assistant check the airport's records, and Kate Jones has been out and about all month. But Sydney hasn't left home once. She has the dates for me, and I'm going to check them out to be sure. But that's what my hunch is." I inhale, realizing that in the course of my truth campaign I hadn't really breathed.  
  
"Oh my God," she whispers under her breath. "Why would she do that? Why wouldn't she tell us?" Francie's eyes dart back and forth across my face, trying to read my feelings. I can tell that she's confused too, and that she feels a little betrayed. "Wait. If Sydney is Kate Jones, why was Kate Jones in Ireland last week when Sydney said she was Dallas?" Hm. That last one was an angle I hadn't covered. Good question.  
  
"I don't know. We're going to ask her when she gets back." Francie turns and stares straight ahead, still. "We'll ask her Fran. It'll be ok."  
  
"Will," she whispers, her eyes not moving from their fixation on the blank TV in front of her, "where is Kate Jones supposed to be now?" She turns to meet my eyes, and realization floods me.  
  
"Bring your calendar Fran. We're going to my office to look at those dates."  
  
TO BE CONTINUED…  
  
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	5. Shocking

A/N: Thanks to Robin for beta-ing this chapter!  
  
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Will's POV  
  
The dates match. The places don't.  
  
Kate in Ontario, Syd in San Diego. Kate in Prague, Syd in New York. Kate in Seville, Syd in Seattle. Kate in D.C., Syd in Sacramento. And most recently, Kate in Ireland, Syd in Dallas.  
  
It doesn't make sense. Sydney could easily travel under a different name; granted, with the recent security crackdown it would be harder, yet still possible. But lie about your destinations? That's just odd. I sigh, feeling incredibly frustrated that we only have the past month's itineraries. Who knows when Sydney started this, this, heck I don't know what this is.  
  
And the name she chose to travel under. The fact that another woman linked to Danny, another woman also pretending to be Kate Jones, was murdered, was way past the point of coincidence. What was the link between Eloise and Sydney?  
  
I push my reading glasses up on my nose when Francie interrupts my thoughts. "Well this is quasi-explainable," she says matter-of-factly. "Sydney travels under a different name, that's not that weird. So she flies around using the name Kate Jones, that's why she was seated next to Danny on that plane. And Syd was away when Danny was killed, which is why she missed the flight. But I can't explain the cities. Why would she lie about the cities?"  
  
Obviously we're on the same page here. I shake my head in pure bewilderment. I hear Francie crack her knuckles.  
  
We stare at the paper silently for an eternity, until our brains are thoroughly expired from thinking of solutions and explanations. No matter what crosses my mind, there is always a loophole. And only Sydney can fill it in.  
  
Francie's cell phone rings, momentarily freeing us from the quicksand that has invaded our minds. "Hello? Hey Syd!" she says, casting me an uncomfortable glance, like she doesn't know what to say. "Oh, that's great news!" The tone of her voice is uneasy and too sweet for Francie – she's lying. I wonder what Sydney said to her. "Yeah, we'll be waiting," she says, and quickly hangs up.  
  
"What was that about?"  
  
"Will, Sydney's on her way home. She caught an earlier flight from…wherever she was. She'll be home in about an hour, and I told her that we'd be waiting for her when she got there."  
  
I can feel the adrenaline, the rush of anticipation, begin to flow. This was our chance. Sydney was coming back, and we could confront her right when she walks through the door.  
  
"Great. Fran, we're going to ask her. Right when she gets home. She's not going to go off and crash like she always does. She's got some explaining to do."  
  
~~~  
  
Fifty minutes later, Francie and I are sitting on the girls' porch, sipping on Bay Breezes and enjoying the sun. I remind myself not to say anything that Francie doesn't know – the masked men who kidnapped me still haven't been erased from my mind. She is too anxious to say anything, so I sit in silence, and begin to contemplate which line to open with. Line #1: "Hey, Kate Jones. How was Ireland?" Line #2: "Hey Sydney, want to tell us about Kate Jones?" Or line #3: "Sydney, tell us why you travel under a different name and lie about where you're going. No crap." Personally, I'm leaning toward line #1. It's the most shocking. Shocking is the only thing that could allow the tiniest slip, just something to prove that Sydney knows more than we think.  
  
"So, Francie, how does this line sound?" I begin, when Sydney comes out through the sliding door to join us on the porch.  
  
"Hey." She smiles. "Oh, are you guys having Bay Breezes? I'll go make one and come join you." She smiles again. Her eyes show a slight trace of happiness, but I can see the fatigue behind them, and the stress embedded in them. She turns to go, but I stop her before she can run off, like she always does when she gets home.  
  
"Hey, Sydney. Or should I call you Kate Jones?" Her expression grows blank, her defenses immediately up and her poker face on. "Did you have a nice time in Ireland?"  
  
TO BE CONTINUED…  
  
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	6. The Right Thing

A/N: As usual, I must praise the beta – thanks Robin!  
  
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Francie's POV  
  
Oh my God. Did Will just say that? I knew Will was eager, but…  
  
"What are you talking about?" Sydney's tone is harsh, but her face doesn't give anything away – it is completely blank. Is she just really good at hiding things, at lying? Or…are we wrong? This could be a huge misunderstanding. There are just too many loopholes. And if it is a mistake, and Sydney finds out that Will and I had been spying on her, digging into her life behind her back, would she ever forgive us? I mean, sure, she'd say she did eventually, but if it were me, I'd carry this around with me forever – a huge void in my heart, one of knowing that my best friends didn't trust me. The only real evidence we have is some stupid dates anyway.  
  
That feeling of leaving your body and peering in on the scenario from the outside just hit me. As I observe the scene, I realize that this is the most absurd situation ever. And over what? A plane ticket? I wonder how I could have thought that this was such a big deal just hours earlier. This wasn't a big deal at all – it was dumb and pointless, a result of two people who have wild imaginations and too much free time. Nothing good is going to come from this either – everyone will just get hurt, and nothing will be resolved. I can't believe Will and I thought that this would be doing the right thing! Well, I started this, I found the plane ticket, I pushed Will into following it up, I led us here – and I can put a stop to it too.  
  
Sydney and Will are so intently glaring at each other that no one has noticed me. No one has spoken since Sydney's circumspect retort. Suddenly, I burst into laughter, and all eyes are on me. Sydney still looks blank, and Will casts a murderous glance at me before looking to see Sydney's reaction.  
  
"That's a good one, Will!" I keep laughing, and take a long sip of my Bay Breeze for added effect. "But you still didn't beat my line!" Turning to Sydney, I slur, "Hi, Chad, did you have a nice time in Florida?" I continue laughing, inwardly asking myself how I managed to think up the lamest joke ever on such short notice. I reach again for my drink, but Sydney grabs it away from me, then quickly confiscates Will's as well. I catch a glimpse of her face. She looks relieved.  
  
"Oh my God, Will, are you guys drunk?" she scolds. I slump down into my chair, a "drunken" smile on my face. Sydney bought it.  
  
"Francie," Will hisses, "what are you doing?" I begin to mumble a ridiculous answer, keeping with the drunk act, but it seems that Sydney already has it covered.  
  
"I can't believe you guys are drunk on a Tuesday afternoon," she sighs on her way into the kitchen. As soon as she is out of earshot, Will goes off at me, his anger evident.  
  
"What was that? What happened to finding out about our friend? Protecting her?"  
  
"Will, this whole thing was pointless from the beginning. Face it; Sydney's not going to tell us anything. Jesus, she probably doesn't even know anything! This is probably a huge misunderstanding, and all that's going to happen is that Sydney is going to feel betrayed. We're not going to gain anything, and it's not worth it."  
  
"But what about Danny? Kate Jones was supposed to be seated next to him! That could help solve his murder, Fran. How can you say it's not worth it?"  
  
"Sydney loved Danny. If she knew anything, anything, that would help bring her closure, she would tell us. She might be a little confused, but she's got nothing to hide."  
  
Will's eyes fall to the floor, defeated. He knows that I'm right. He knows that what we're doing is nothing more than uncalled for.  
  
Sydney returns to the porch carrying two cold water bottles. She places one down in front of me, and another one in front of Will. "Here, you guys, drink these. You should both get some sleep." She lets a small smile break through. Will keeps staring at the floor. I lean back in my chair and sigh, closing my eyes. "I'll see you guys at dinner tonight," she whispers. I hear the click of her shoes on the wood as she walks away, followed by the glass door sliding shut.  
  
I take a deep breath. We did the right thing.  
  
TO BE CONTINUED…  
  
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	7. Exposed

A/N: Thanks yet again to Robin, beta extraordinaire.  
  
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Sydney's POV  
  
I slip quietly into the bathroom, angrily tearing off layers of clothing until I am bare and raw, exposed. I turn the shower on, the water sizzling and steaming against my skin. I stand firmly, too shocked to feel the pain from the scorching torrent.  
  
Unobtrusively, a cold tear spills down my cheek. The water beating from overhead quickly washes it away, and it mixes with the rest of the scalding, steamy flow. Washed away, but not forgotten. It is enough. Enough to make me acknowledge what I fear the most – that I am crumbling. That I am not invincible.  
  
I remember leaving the ticket in my drawer. I simply didn't have enough time to dispose of it, to find a nondescript trashcan somewhere. I should have made time.  
  
I didn't think anything would come of it if I just hid it in a drawer. Who would know if it was crumpled up under some old clothes? I planned to get rid of it the next day, on the way to class. But Sloane paged me before I was out the door. Emergency. And before I could even breathe, I was on another plane to a typical industrial area in a far away corner of the world, ready to do double reconnaissance duty.  
  
The water begins to sting, relentlessly. But I don't make a move to change the temperature. Instead, I encase myself in my arms, isolating me even more from my surroundings. I continue staring straight ahead. I deserve to be burned.  
  
To be honest, I didn't think the ticket was a big deal, a threat. First of all, why would anyone find it? Will and Francie wouldn't have a clue as to its significance even if, by some freak encounter, they did stumble across it. So, I wasn't worried.  
  
But Will's eyes. And his tone of voice. He felt betrayed, no matter how drunk he was.  
  
There was no way to tell how much they knew, and no way to tell how. I know they won't bring it up again, though. All they have is a ticket, and a ticket won't reveal the truth.  
  
But a ticket is enough. It's just enough to give them doubts. Just enough to let them be killed if Security Section finds out. A worthless, tattered piece of paper.  
  
The water is so scorching that it feels like my back is being whipped. I don't move, on the outside. But my soul crumbles. I begin to cry, a silent, unblinking, steady cry. No gasps for air, no hiccups, no sniffling. Just a pure stream of tears, of stripped exposure.  
  
I am not invincible. I let the people I care about the most get too close. I gave my best friends another reason to suspect something, to question me. I allowed them to advance one more rung on the ladder of my life – a ladder that they were never meant to climb.  
  
I have failed.  
  
And the water keeps burning.  
  
THE END  
  
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A/N 2: Yes, it's the end, but it's not really the end. Understand? Anyway, there's an epilogue soon to come…you have not seen the last of the Kate Jones plane ticket! 


	8. Epilogue: Truth Be Told

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Epilogue: Will's POV  
  
I kept the plane ticket.  
  
Over the years, I have glanced at it every now and then: a reminder of uncertainty. I have often pondered its significance, fully acknowledging that I will never know its true story. After that day on the porch, I stopped trying.  
  
Of course, life went on after that day. Sydney kept going on her bank trips, under what name I never bothered to know. She finally finished grad school last year, although she has never followed up on her dream of being a teacher. She blamed it on the bank, of course. But Francie and I knew better than to question her decision. We knew that some things were just unexplainable.  
  
Then, two weeks ago, Sydney disappeared. No phone call, no note, nothing. And I got out the plane ticket. For two weeks now, I have been staring at it, foolishly thinking that it will make me feel better, that it will offer some explanation as to Sydney's disappearance. It hasn't.  
  
She has left without notice before, but only for a few days. Initially, Francie and I weren't that affected. We shook it off as another "emergency" bank trip, and Syd didn't have time to call us because she was so bogged down with work. But then she never came home. And there was no word from anyone; her colleagues or her father. The police offered nothing.  
  
I am scared for Sydney. I have dropped quite a few pounds over the last two weeks, too worried to eat much of anything. I'm worried because I don't know what happened to her. And no one can tell me.  
  
I am holding the ticket right now. The only clue I have into the twisted labyrinth that it Sydney Bristow's life. My mind wanders, and my grip on the ticket tightens. And the door opens.  
  
I vaguely notice when Sydney enters. This couldn't be true, could it? Just minutes ago I was trying to convince myself that she wasn't dead, and now she's standing in the doorway. Sydney pauses, a broad grin flaunting her dimples. The ticket falls to the ground, forgotten, as I rise from my chair in a daze to give Sydney a hug, to make sure that what I'm seeing is reality. I run across the room to her, but her appearance makes me stop short before I touch her.  
  
Looking her up and down, I take in what I failed to notice out of my previous relief and excitement. Her clothes are bloody, ripped, and dirty. Her hair, tied back, is slick with sweat and caked in dust. Her exposed arms are cut and bruised, the knuckles on her delicate hands raw, her fingernails trapping dirt beneath them. Her face is flushed and grimy, and a dried blood trail stretches from the corner of her mouth to her chin. Regardless of this disarray, Sydney is smiling.  
  
I gasp at her appearance, my eyes moving quickly around trying to see everything. Shocked, I begin to mumble nonsensical questions at her, but instead of answering them she takes me in her filthy arms and hugs me. I hug her back, eagerly, and we remain locked in a tight embrace for what seems like hours. Sydney begins to cry, and I pull back to look at her face. Her smile is still there, but her eyes glisten a mixture of happiness and pain.  
  
"It's time for me to tell you the truth," she whispers.  
  
We sit together on the couch, my hand stroking her back to ease the pain as she tells me her story. For two and half hours, I sit silently as I learn about Sydney's real life: SD-6, the CIA, her parents, her handler, and her struggle to survive. I learn about Kate Jones, Eloise Kurtz, Credit Dauphine, Danny's murder, Arvin Sloane, and Joey's Pizza. I learn that she disappeared two weeks ago because she had to make Sloane and the rest of SD- 6 believe that she was dead. And that yesterday, she had helped to take down SD-6 for good after four years of being a double agent.  
  
When she finishes, I hug her, and we rock back and forth slowly. I don't know how long I had cried for, but I notice the dampness on my face when she brushes away a stream of tears on my cheek. I wipe away her tears as well. Our efforts are futile; we both continue crying.  
  
"I'm sorry," I choke out through my tears. "I'm sorry that you had to live like that for so long. And I'm sorry that I couldn't help you."  
  
"Don't be," she whispers back. "It was my duty. Now that I know people, my friends, are safe…" she trails off. "I can finally sleep at night."  
  
I am speechless. What can I possibly say that would make up for everything that she had gone through? What words could encompass my empathy and my gratitude? What could I ever say to make her life right? Then I realize. Her life is right. She had worked tirelessly to make it so. And yesterday's events had made up for everything.  
  
Sometimes, it is only the smallest of phrases that can grasp the largest emotions.  
  
"Thank you," I whisper. "Thank you."  
  
THE END.  
  
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A/N: Thanks to everyone who read this story, and especially to those who reviewed. Of course, major thanks go to Nicole and Robin, faithful beta readers. ( 


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